


Wilt

by transience



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mentions of Auguste, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Past Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 10:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7529761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transience/pseuds/transience
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follows Laurent from the first winter without Auguste, when the Regent does unspeakable evils, until the moment Laurent is brought before his Uncle in Akielos in chains.</p><p>Laurent learns that the promise of forever is the hardest to keep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wilt

**Author's Note:**

> my laptop keeps autocorrecting Damen to Dampen and its dampening my spirits (ha ha so lame(n) i should shut up now)  
> I should have fixed them but if i missed any, oops?

 

 

* * *

_When the snow falls_

_and you're in pain_

* * *

The first winter is always the hardest, Laurent tells himself, shivering even underneath his multiple layers of rich Veretian brocade.

It was a particularly bitter winter, as if the snow itself was mourning with the kingdom. The wind’s icy fingers siphoned through the most minute cracks, seeking out every crevice for some trace of the lost prince.

Not lost. Dead. Gone, forever.

Laurent has gotten sick of courtesans treating him like he was too young to understand that Auguste was never coming back, and would never see another snowfall with him, or catch a snowflake upon his nose or shake frost from his hair after a long ride.

He would never again stand behind Laurent to correct his stance or grip on a sword. He would never again tuck Laurent in and read him a story, a common occurrence ever since the passing of the late Queen.

Laurent learns that the promise of ‘forever’ is impossible to keep, and that there is no such thing as a fair fight. Someone is always stronger. Someone always has to concede. Wasn’t that how the world worked?

Burrowing deeper into the sheets, Laurent has to resist the urge to bolt out his chambers into his brother’s, knowing that even if he did sneak into Auguste’s bed, it would be lacking the familiar warmth of winters past. He wraps the cloth tighter around himself, trying to keep in the scarce warmth, trying to hold himself together.

 

* * *

_do you think that the white color of the cold snow would turn red_

_into a wonderful bed of roses?_

* * *

It is still winter when it happens. Laurent’s chambers were now rid of the dark colours of mourning, and the blue starburst tapestries were up, embroidered in gold thread, fit for a crown prince. Fit for him, now that Auguste was no longer with him.

His room is forever cast in shadows, Laurent going day by day with a strange languor that deems it too taxing to even pull the curtains aside in the scant hours of daylight winter lets pass.

His sheets are white, though, as Veretian sheets have always been. The courtesans enjoyed it for more artistic bedroom ventures, where colours of paints or foodstuffs would show up brilliantly against pristine white. It was a testament to the palace staff that the bedsheets could be kept in such a flawless state, the rich material forever seeming new.

He still cannot remember what exactly happened, whether it was his Uncle that had drawn him to bed, or if it was truly he who had advanced out of desperation or the raw, aching loneliness of loss. He knows he woke up to foreign pains all over his body, clothed only by a thin sheet stained with ribbons of off-white and browning red.

It didn’t take a genius to put together what happened.

 

* * *

_Are my eyes closed?_

* * *

Because family is supposed to protect. Humans make mistakes, but surely, _surely_ his uncle, his sole living relative, wouldn’t _kill_ him, would he?

No, no, of course he won’t. How could Laurent even consider the possibility that…

His uncle had poisoned his horse. The horse he and August had raised.  
His uncle had sent men to kill him. His uncle wanted him gone.  
His uncle had pulled strings to get the man who killed Auguste to fuck him with the intention to break Laurent.

His uncle did not love him. No one does, not anymore.

 

* * *

_If they open_

_will they see that the sky is in the color of blue and not grey?_

* * *

Damen reminds him he is playing with the fates of men, of flesh and blood and soul. He reminds him the sky is not the black and white of a chessboard, but the cornflower blue of the Crown.

Perhaps Damen could convince Laurent that the earth is not stained with his brother’s blood, and that his spirits had never been tinged with jarring sanguine.

Perhaps Laurent would feel safe enough to retire earlier, before the sky tens into the odd dark gray of dusk, after the sun slips beneath the horizon, taking its bleeding crimson rays with it.

Too soon, too soon.

 

* * *

_Or am I inside a cage, so broken?_

* * *

Laurent can’t, may never be able to… reciprocate.

So why does Damen persist?

He has to close his eyes sometimes, the image of different hands, a different face, coming to mind,

But he hears another voice, sweet and sincere and free of traps, and it’s not so bad this time, not so bad when it’s with Damen.

 

* * *

_Let's dance tonight_

_to the clock burning every_

_second away, second away, second away_

* * *

It’s a tangle of limbs, a dance in their exchanges. Laurent hints, but doesn’t deliver, and Dampen never pushes. Laurent jibes, and Damen laughs. It’s shocking how familiar Laurent has been with that dynamic lately.

The rooftop escapade comes to mind, not to mention the brothels that preceded that. Laughter, exhilaration, the refreshing sting of cool night air gentler as they made their way south.

And relief when he came back.

They’re near the border now, and Laurent knows Damen is going to leave. But he cannot think. Not with so many deaths, not with even more losses and emptiness and his own inadequacy.

What kind of prince is he if he cannot even protect all those he cared about, but can still manage to like someone he ought to loathe?

The seconds tick past, and Laurent decides he’ll make these ones count.

 

* * *

_The fading light_

_leaves everything in darkness_

_swallowed and gone, swallowed and gone, swallowed and gone_

* * *

Damen slumbers on, still spent. The low light shutters through the cloudy glass, and Laurent fixates on the mottled the uneven glass caution the bedsheets.

They’re still white, this time, nary a hint of red.

Laurent does not know what to think, but he can think now, at least.

His Uncle’s message rings clear and true in his ears, and suddenly, everything falls into place.

Despair is quickly replaced by resignation. There was only one course of action that would ensure Damen and his child’s safety. Laurent knows what he has to do.

He goes for a ride.

 

* * *

_There are shadows_

_in the closet_

* * *

He saw it coming, but still, there is a stark dichotomy between foresight and first-hand experience. The chains are digging into his wrists, made for larger Akielon men, they were odd enough to chafe, but small enough to bind. The manacles were in a way that you were forced to bear some of its weight off the floor, and his back is stiff from hours of questioning.

Damen is safe though, and Laurent would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him break, not even when his Uncle drags out part shadows from his closet.

 

* * *

_I said when I was just a little girl foolish and young_

_with an innocent tongue, outspoken_

_Are they still there?_

* * *

He sees Auguste in his mind’s eye. His brother is looking at him, urging him to keep his gaze steady and posture straight.

Auguste tells Laurent he loves him, and tells him to be brave.

Laurent inclines his head slightly to meet his Uncle’s eyes.

 

* * *

_If they are gone_

_will they be waiting and greeting me with warm welcomes and smiles_

_as I go with them while I'm broken_

* * *

Maybe he would see Auguste soon.

**Author's Note:**

> in italics: Wilt by VerseQuence


End file.
